


Lord of Eryn Lasgalen

by Vivaria



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-12
Updated: 2018-02-17
Packaged: 2019-03-17 10:31:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,331
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13657161
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vivaria/pseuds/Vivaria
Summary: When Aragorn brings the creature Gollem to the halls of the Woodland Realm, Thranduil realises war is coming.





	1. Gollum

The shadow is growing, they say. There are signs, and whispers, and with each passing year the darkness closes in further. Elrond sends his people away from Middle Earth, and Celeborn tightens the wards of Lorien. The age of elves is passing, and one wonders why they should even concern themselves with the fate of these wretched lands anymore.

Thranduil finds himself thinking of ships, of the western sea and a distant shore. Is he wasting the lives of his people, flinging them against an enemy that will not, _cannot_ die? Would it not be better to simply give up and leave while they still can, like rats abandoning a sinking ship? There is no change to this closing terror.

 “All is not yet lost,” Galadriel tells him.

“There is still hope,” Gandalf mutters.

Saruman says nothing. As the head of the order, he remains silent in the great spire of Orthanc, and Thranduil thinks _I know what you’re doing. You’re hiding away, like I did. You know this evil cannot be stopped._

But then there is Legolas. Legolas, who will not leave. Legolas, who seems more like his mother each time Thranduil sees him, with the childlike wonder and love for the world around him. When he visits Mirkwood he does so for far too short a time and then he’s off again, full of desire for the unknown. If the storm is gathering, he does not seem bothered by it. This worries Thranduil more than he can put into words.

And then, one dreary day in March, the Ranger called Strider brings the creature Gollum to the halls of the Woodland Realm.

-

“I caught him in the Dead Marshes,” he says, and when the wretched creature makes a break for it, cursing and hissing, he gives the rope by which he holds it a sharp tug. Gollum topples over and starts crying in broken sobs.

Thranduil _almost_ feels sorry for it.  “And what would you have me do with it?” he asks with some distaste. “If you wanted it dead, I presume you would have done the job yourself.”

“Gandalf wishes to question him,” Aragorn says. “Your prisons are secure and your people are known for their integrity. I could not wish for a better place to keep him, for the time being.”

Thranduil holds his silence for a moment longer. He likes Aragorn. He sent his son to the Dúnedan in the hope that Aragorn might ease some of Legolas’s restlessness and keep him from serious harm. Now, it seems, Legolas has chosen to go off on a quest by himself and Aragorn is doing Gandalf’s bidding… for whatever strange reason.

“The creature knows something?” he concludes.

Aragorn inclines his head, tight-lipped as always. It makes Thranduil smile indulgently. _Bless you, young Elessar, for your loyalty to the wizard. I’ll have the truth of it soon enough._ “Your guest is welcome to stay, as are you,” he says, waving his hand. “Take him to whatever cell you deem fitting. My people will take good care of him until Gandalf arrives.”

-

He is in his ante chamber, reading up on types of orc, when he hears Tauriel approach. He knows specifically it’s her because she always takes stairs three steps at a time and then pauses right before she enters, probably measuring the words of her report so he can’t find fault.

It is a challenge he readily accepts. “Do come in, Tauriel. You know there’s no need to knock.” He closes the book and places it on the side table, rising to his feet as she enters. She gives him a stiff bow and immediately launches into her report: “The Nazgûl has left Dol Guldur.”

 It is at times like these that Thranduil wonders why he lifted her banishment in the first place. “I thought I ordered you to stay away from that accursed place,” he snaps, his eyes wide and cold as he watches her pace to and fro. He wishes she would stand still. He wishes she would stop wearing her hair in that ridiculous dwarven fashion – it has been more than seventy years since Kili died. The dwarf’s remains will be little more than dust by now, and for her to still be mourning so publicly puzzles him.

She shakes her head, her eyes narrowed with that same tight-strung intensity she holds in her entire body. “One does not have to venture close to know what has happened. _Something_ has called it away – to some other dark end, I’m sure, but we would be fools not to grasp this opportunity. If we strike now, strike _hard_ , we might overtake the place and burn it all to the ground, as we should have done years ago. As we should have…” She trails off when she sees Thranduil’s expression. “My apologies, Your Majesty,” she manages. He imagines the words taste like ashes in her mouth.

“When last I checked, Thranduil son of Oropher was still king of Mirkwood,” he states airily.

“And am I not your captain of the guard?”

“Yesss,” he drawls. “Though one stands to wonder why, as you find it so very difficult to swallow my orders.”

“And have I not, in all those years of service, given you enough reason to trust me?”

“I’m currently hard-pressed to remember those reasons.” He starts pouring himself a goblet of wine, as he so often does when trading words with his captain. She is horribly, _tiringly_ recalcitrant and it’s giving him a headache. “In any case, the answer is no.”

“No… you don’t trust me?”

He turns with a sweep of his cloak and smiles at her, making sure the expression doesn’t quite reach his eyes. She is staring at him, stricken. “No, you will not attack Dol Guldur. Not by yourself, not with any force. And I fully trust you to follow these orders.” He strides past her and, before she can come up with any kind of reply, motions for her to follow him with one hand. “Now. It will not have escaped your notice that we are graced by the presence of a Ranger.”

“Strider, often called Elessar by our kin,” she grumbles, still sore by his sharp dismissal and change of subject. “I know of him.”

“Good, that saves me some narrative. He has brought a creature called Gollum into our Kingdom, with the request that we keep it in our prisons and tend to it until Gandalf arrives to question it. I first thought it was some kind of orc, but now I’m not too sure…” He pauses in front of the doors that lead into the dungeons. “The creature knows something. I want you to find out what it is.”

“We do not wait for Gandalf to question it?” There is a mild rebuke in her question, but Thranduil doesn’t take offence.

“No,” he says. “I am sure the wizard will understand.” He turns and walks away, leaving Tauriel to do his bidding.

That afternoon their order of new wine barrels comes up from Dale. With it comes more troubling news: Easterling scouts have been spotted, riding on horseback and furtive when approached. It does not seem they are seeking trade or sanctuary; instead they take note of the lay of the land and disappear on the horizon, venturing a little bit closer each time.

“Humans and dwarves are as thick-headed as ever,” Thranduil sighs when he hears about it. “Wringing their hands over scouts instead of capturing them… I can do nothing with this information. When they wish for my help, let them ask for it outright.” It is an obvious dismissal, designed to let his people know he is not worried.

But he is. Something is happening now, something he knew was coming. Opposite to what Tauriel thinks, Thranduil has paid much attention to Dol Guldur. He knows of the Nazgûl that took seat there. His name is Khamûl, Lord of Rhûn, second to the Witch-King of Angmar. He was once a great Easterling King, before Sauron corrupted him into becoming one of the nine Ringwraiths. It is too much of a coincidence that he has now disappeared, right at the moment when Easterlings scout for Dale’s defences.

That evening he shares his supper with Aragorn and decides to put the matter forward. The Ranger is a thoughtful man, wise beyond his years, and not likely to gossip about the King’s worries with other courtiers.

Aragorn chews thoughtfully as Thranduil speaks, then seems to lose his appetite when the Nazgûl are mentioned. He places his knife down onto his plate and swallows, reaching for his cup of wine. In the silence following Thranduil’s words, he drinks.

“You know of them,” Thranduil states. “You know from whence they came, who they were.”

“I know who they serve,” Aragorn says, wiping his hands on a napkin. “If Khamûl has left Dol Guldur it is for some ulterior motive unknown to us, and it means our enemy is moving. You are wise not to have attacked the stronghold without proper preparations; doubtless he has left someone else in charge. It is far from abandoned.”

“So you council patience?” Thranduil asks, raising his eyebrows. It is not what he expected; nor, to his own surprise, what he truly wanted to hear.

“As our enemy calls those who serve him close, so should we call for our friends,” Aragorn says, and his stare is fixed at something far away, his mouth set in a grim line. “I would send messengers to Grimbeorn and his kin in the Anduin Vales, to Radagast in Rhosgobel.”

“And tell them what?” Thranduil places down his own knife, his pride bitter in his mouth. “That the King of the Woodland Realm cannot hold his own?”

“Against the evil that is spreading?” Aragorn fixes him with a soft look, sighs deeply and shakes his head. “If we stand divided, none of us can.”

-

Thranduil hardly sleeps anymore, but he is dozing off when there is a firm knock on the door of his bedchamber. For a split second his first instinct is to reach for his sword, startled by the sound, but then he composes himself and gets out of bed. “My Lord, Captain Tauriel has come to report,” the guard outside his chamber says.

Of course she would take her duty serious enough to come report to him three hours before dawn. It would amuse him if he weren’t in such a mood. “Enter,” he grouses, tying his robe.

She strides in and bows, her hands balled into fists. There is a plucky air to her, as though her nerves are on edge. With Tauriel this is a somewhat constant state of being, but either she is too tired to hide it or the creature Gollum has proven a difficult nut to crack.

“Speak,” Thranduil says.

“He is not an orc,” she says, and Thranduil has to bite his tongue in order not to snap at her. Instead he turns around, subconsciously seeking a bottle of wine and hissing through his teeth when he realises there’s only water. To busy himself, he pours two cups.

“I trust that’s not the only thing you found out about him,” he drawls, handing her one of the cups. She accepts it with a bow of her head and proceeds to drain it thirstily. Trust his captain not to think of her own body’s needs while on a mission.

“Indeed not,” she said, lowering the cup. “He is on a mission to find someone or something he calls his precious. It was stolen from him some years ago, perhaps decades, by one _Baggins_.”

The name makes Thranduil blink, but he takes care not to otherwise let his surprise show. Memories of that horrible business with the dwarves come flooding back. Even though eighty years is not very long in the life of an elf, the world around them moves on and he had hoped after Thorin’s death it would be the last he heard of the matter. He makes a mental note to confront Gandalf about it as soon as the wizard arrives.

 “His search drew him east at first, which is odd as Baggins is a halfling’s name, and they all live to the west…” Tauriel holds her meandering monologue as she paces to and fro, as though she’s lecturing a class. “It brought him to Mordor itself, which is where his tale takes a strange turn.” She pauses and looks up at Thranduil, her lip slightly curled in confused disgust. “He says they interrogated them there.”

“They?”

“Orcs. Other… beings. He mentioned a tower, slowly being rebuilt. That is where they took him. Where they tortured him.”

A tower being rebuilt. It makes the hair on the back of his neck stand up, but he maintains his pleasant expression and tilts his head. “What did he tell them?”

She shakes her head. “I get nothing out of him except for his _precious_. He keeps licking his fingers, spitting at me and sobbing in turns. It is a pitiful creature.”

“His precious.” Thranduil takes the cup from her and places it at the table. “Thank you, Tauriel. You’ve given me much to think about.” He expects her to leave now, but for some reason she’s decided to linger. She opens her mouth, closes it, and bites down on her lip. “Is there something else?” he inquires.

“I know you are worried,” she says in a low voice. “After all these years I think I know you well enough to tell when you’re pretending to be strong for your people.”

“Pretending?” he keeps his voice kindly and soft, but Tauriel catches the underlying threat and flinches.

“All I’m saying, your majesty, is that with Legolas gone you might sometimes find yourself in need of someone to confide in.”

“And you would magnanimously offer your own ear to my troubles.” He is mocking her, cruelly so, but her words have struck a chord and he finds it hard to find the right reply. In truth he misses his son terribly, the absence of him like the loss of a limb. It is why he sought Aragorn’s company, and why, when the wizard arrives, he has a whole list of items to discuss.

The notion that he might share his thoughts with his impulsive captain of the guard, however, is laughable. Still she faces him with that stubborn expression of hers, with her head tilted back and a muscle jumping in her jaw. “I do not reach beyond my station, your majesty,” she says.

“I know you would never.”

“I make this offer not because I want to be privy to your thoughts, but because I—” she halts, and Thranduil is suddenly very interested in whatever words she was going to say. “But because you are my king,” she finishes, lamely.

He gives her a level stare. Elves do not blush and even Tauriel, with her Silvan tendencies, does not show any awkward discomfort. He waits to see if more words will be forthcoming but as she meets his stare with one of her own, he starts to wonder what he’s waiting for, truly. “Your compassion is commendable,” he eventually says. “And your offer duly noted.” He turns away from her and takes off his robe, allowing it to pool on the floor. “You are dismissed.”

Her small intake of breath at the sight of his bare skin has not gone unnoticed, and he finds himself smiling as he hears the door close behind her.

-

He does not go back to bed. Instead he gets dressed and makes his own way down to the dungeons, to one of the deepest cells. Here water drips steadily from what has once been a small waterfall, and the light is so dim he has to take a lantern to see.

The creature growls and curses when it sees the light, and scuttles all the way back into its cell. Its eyes gleam eerily.

“You have been to Mordor,” Thranduil says.

His answer is nothing but a low, soft hiss.

“They must have hurt you badly.”

The hissing stops. The gleaming eyes blink, then disappear as the creature turns towards the wall. Thranduil hears it whisper to itself, “Doesn’t know. Mustn’t ask us.”

“You will not be treated in such a manner here,” Thranduil says, soothing and coaxing. When the creature grows silent, he walks to the edge of the cell so he can see what it is about. Like Tauriel said, it seems to be licking its fingers. “Do you know who I am?” he asks.

The creature turns its head and bares its teeth, its voice taking on an eerie, rhyming quality: “In the black wind the stars shall die, and still be gold here let them lie, till the Dark Lord lifts his hand over dead sea and withered land.”

Thranduil curls his lips into a sneer. He knows what the creature is quoting, and has the sudden urge to open the cell, stride in and strangle it. There is something rotting in its brain, something eating it, and he has the distinct feeling he will not get a single honest word out of it. _Let Mithrandir try,_ he thinks as he strides away from the cell, followed by the hacking cough of the creature. _Let him stoop to the fiend’s level in an attempt to get honesty from its filthy mouth._


	2. Counsel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sauron moves into the open and Gandalf shows his cards, forcing Thranduil to seek aid.

Gandalf arrives two days after Aragorn and he is flustered as ever, his grey beard tangled and his hair twisted against the hood of his cloak. Thranduil feels a wave of affection when the wizard comes before his throne, and walks down to meet him. “You are most welcome, Mithrandir.”

“Lord Thranduil,” Gandalf grumbles in his deep voice as they clasp hands. “Long have I wished to walk in the halls of the woodland realm again, but to my regret this is not a social call.”

“I am aware of the fact.” Thranduil motions for him to walk along. “Come, you look wearied from your journey. Bathe and eat, and I shall lead you to our… guest.”

“I would prefer to see the creature immediately.” Gandalf stops walking and turns to face Thranduil, his bushy brows lowered over his eyes. There is a harried quality to the wizard, even more than usual, and a stone of worry drops in Thranduil’s stomach. “I come from Minas Tirith, and as I rode to your fair halls a shadow has been growing in my mind. There is talk of spies venturing west: birds and bats and other, more fell creatures. I dare not think of what they hope to find, but I feel as though the enemy knows something we do not.”

Thranduil sighs deeply and leads the wizard down the path to the dungeons. “I have heard much of the same. Scouts from Rhûn have crossed the river Celduin and are seen taking Dale’s measure. My captain of the guard tells me the Wraith Khamûl left Dol Guldur to fly East. It seems the wheel turns again to bring forth evil – as it does every age.”

“If he flew East it must have been shortly before he turned south.” Gandalf’s wand ticks against the stone steps as they descent further into the halls. “He joined the forces of Rhûn and Harad in an attack against Gondor in Ithilien.”

“The enemy moves openly?” It is worse than Thranduil expected, but at the same time he feels a strange sort of exultation. Finally, it seems, the dreadful wait is over.

“It is only a matter of time before he declares himself.” They pause in front of the gate to the dungeons. “Lord Thranduil. I have urged for a meeting of the White Council but Saruman will not heed me. He thinks there is no need for us to gather, that whispers are only gossip… but I fear the hour is growing late. There will come a time, soon, when we will have to act swiftly. I advise you to be ready for it.”

Thranduil does not like being told what to do, but he knows the wisdom of Gandalf’s words. He inclines his head, and motions for the guard to open the gate to the dungeons. Once Gandalf has entered, he turns away and wanders the pathways, lost in thought.

It is show of strength, Tauriel calls it, that keeps him from seeking alliances and responding to these harrowing reports with urgency. He knows better – it is fear. All this time he has been able to ignore the tidings because they did not affect him nor his people. Dol Guldur lies far to the south of Mirkwood and its foundations cannot be undone, much like the foundations of Barad-Dûr, for they were forged by the Ring and the Ring has been lost for centuries. When evil returned to the old fortress, Thranduil felt content to leave the matter to the White Council.

Now, however, the Council does not respond as it should, and this is beginning to worry him. A time will soon come when he can no longer hide behind the responsibilities of others. He will have to send his people to war, again, and they will die – again. Had he thought about sailing west? He feels that now they are already too late to do so.

Tauriel finds him on his balcony, nursing a goblet of wine and staring out into the forest. She comes to stand next to him but does not speak, instead resting both hands on the railing and silently regarding the forest like he is. A breeze carries her scent to him: apples, pine and wood smoke. Thranduil sighs deeply – he seems to do that a lot, of late. “Out with it, then.”

She turns her head, and when he looks at her face he knows it’s bad. “Word from Dáin Ironfoot, King under the Mountain, and Brand, King of Dale. A messenger from Sauron has come to appeal to them both.”

“Appeal to them?” Thranduil snaps.

“Offering them his friendship. Offering _rings_.”

“Surely they refused.” The wine has soured in his mouth and he places down the goblet. Tauriel looks at him with wide eyes, her own fear palpable.

“They stalled for time, both of them,” she says. She balls her hands at her sides, her face pale. “But Dáin says King Brand is so afraid, he might yield.” When Thranduil doesn’t immediately answer, she steps up to him and with only a brief hesitation, takes hold of his hand. Hers are as cold as his are – the sign of life leaving them, of terror taking hold, but when her fingers tighten on his own he imagines something of warmth returns to the both of them. “What are your orders, my lord?” she asks.

He takes in the determined set of her mouth, the frown on her brow, and wonders when last he saw her smile. When Legolas visited, perhaps, though that was many moons past. “Please ask the Dúnedan and Mithrandir to join us in the council room in an hour.” He lets go of her hands and turns away, leaving her standing on the balcony. “It seems war will now come swiftly, and I am in need of advice.”

-

“The enemy knows the Ring has been found,” Gandalf says, and the silence that follows is deafening. The three of them have seated themselves around the polished wooden table in Thranduil’s council room: Gandalf, Aragorn, and Thranduil himself. Tauriel stands behind him so he cannot tell what expression she wears. She holds herself very still.

“It knows the creature Gollum carried it until it was taken from him by one Bilbo Baggins. It is why spies fly west – to the very borders of the Shire.”

Realisation dawns on Thranduil, and with it comes a stab of anger so fierce he has to clench his teeth to quell it. “He carried it even as he stalked these halls,” he says. “And set free the dwarves. It is why he was never seen.”

“And then used it to confound Smaug the Terrible. He played his part in the war that followed, and he played it well.” Gandalf puffs his pipe and motions at Thranduil with its stem. “You yourself called him Elf-friend.”

“So I did,” Thranduil bites out. “And still do. What puzzles me, however, is that it seems you knew of the Ring in the Halfling’s possession, and did nothing. It could have been destroyed decades ago.”

Gandalf makes a small sound at that and sits back, coughing slightly. “Well, I,” he begins. “I could never be certain. There are many rings in this world, crafted with magic, and for all intents and purposes all it seemed to do was turn him invisible. In any case, all members of the Council were told the Ring had been swept out to the sea. I had no reason to believe they were one and the same.”

“Told by whom?” Thranduil demands, and Gandalf mutters something under his breath. It is obvious who spread these lies, but the old wizard still seems fixed in his loyalty to Saruman.

Thranduil, however, is always on the lookout for treachery. He thinks he smells a rat – a big white one. Without proof he will say nothing, but he will henceforth govern his tongue and thoughts closely around the leader of the White Council.

“Are we absolutely certain it is the one Ring?” Aragorn asks. Thus far he has remained silent, and his expression is pensive.

“The enemy seems certain enough,” Gandalf grouses.

Tauriel clears her throat, and both Gandalf and Aragorn raise their gaze to look at her. Thranduil does no such thing – he stares intently ahead.

“If I may speak,” Tauriel says, and when Gandalf inclines his head, she continues, “We have received word from Dáin Ironfoot, King under the Mountain. He tells us both he and Brand, King of Dale, were visited by a messenger from Sauron yesterday. Apart from making certain promises of friendship, this messenger also asked them if they knew about a Halfling carrying a ring.”

Thranduil turns his head sharply, his mouth set into a scowl. “You did not think to share this with me before?”

“I thought it unimportant, compared to the rest of the news.” She swallows hard and blinks. “I now see the importance of this detail and humbly beg my King’s forgiveness for omitting it from my report.”

“The enemy thinks the Ring remained with Bilbo Baggins,” Gandalf says, and Thranduil sends Tauriel one last, glowering glance before straightening.

“In which case it is safe, for the moment.” Aragorn sags visibly, tension leaking out from him. “As Bilbo resides in Rivendell, and has done for quite some years now.”

“Yes, well…” Gandalf trails off, and Thranduil narrows his eyes at him. For all his wisdom, sometimes Mithrandir is as transparent as a clear pool.

“The Ring is not at Rivendell,” he concludes. “Is it?”

“No,” Gandalf says. “Though in my opinion it is safe enough.”

“Safe enough in the Shire, where spies are watching it?” Thranduil knows he ought to watch his tongue; Gandalf is, in many ways, his superior. Still the idea that the One Ring resides among a bunch of oblivious weed-smoking Halflings fills him with dread. “Mithrandir, you must go there and make sure the Ring departs to a place that is easily defended against the enemy.”

“And what place would that be, Thranduil King?” Gandalf retorts. “If the reports are true and Sauron indeed rises again, there is no stronghold in Middle Earth that could hope to withstand him.”

“Could we not send  it on a ship to the West?” Tauriel offers, timidly. She knows she ought not to speak up, and Thranduil makes a mental note to berate her for it later.

“It would merely spread Sauron’s dominion across the Sea,” he drawls. “No, I think I know what you are getting at, Mithrandir, but might I remind you that to destroy the Ring now, with the Orodruin possibly surrounded by enemies, is a bit late. Would that you had thought to do so years ago… decades ago, when Sauron was merely a shadow cast out of Dol Guldur by the lady Galadriel.”

“I will carry that regret with me until the end of my days, along with my delayed search for the creature Gollum.” Gandalf bows his head and raises his hands to cover his grey head. “Alas! We only have the time that is given to us, which is to say – not much. I will ride for the Shire post haste, and urge the bearer of the Ring to make for Rivendell.”

“Could you yourself not carry it?” Aragorn asks, frowning.

Gandalf gives him a sharp glance from under his fingers, his pale eyes narrowed. “I will not touch the blighted thing,” he grunts. “For if it were to seduce me as it has so many others, you would have not one but _two_ dark lords to deal with.

Aragorn huffs and shakes his head. “One is quite enough.”

“And once it arrives in Rivendell, what then? It cannot stay there – it has to be carried to Mordor, to the Orodruin, which is sure to be a quest of great hardship and terror.” Thranduil wonders if Gandalf has his own candidate for the task, and indeed: when he looks at the wizard he sees the narrowed cunning in his eyes, the thoughtful chew of his jaw. Thranduil is willing to bet his entire supply of wine that Gandalf would have a Halfling travel into the very fires of Mount Doom. “Elrond will have to hold a council,” he says. “For this matter concerns all free people of Middle Earth, and each of us should have a say in its fate.” He rises from his chair and both Aragorn and Gandalf are quick to join him. “For my part, I will guard the creature Gollum closely, and send my own representatives to Rivendell.”

“I will ride with you for some of the way,” Aragorn offers, giving Gandalf an intent look. “And look out for the Ringbearer on the road, to offer aid if I can.” He turns to Thranduil and bows, his eyes briefly flicking to Tauriel to include her. “My gratitude for the hospitality of you and your kin, Thranduil King. Na lû e-govaned vîn.”

He inclines his head. “N'i lû tôl, Elessar.”

-

It seems to Thranduil a though his life consists of goodbyes, of watching people leave his stronghold and wondering if he’ll ever see them alive again. After the War of the Five Armies he told himself he should change, that he and his people indeed belonged to this world and should act like it.

It is not easy, however, to break a habit. It requires a certain sense of self-reflection, of knowing you were in the wrong and have to change. This is hard enough for humans; even more so for elves who have developed habits for hundreds upon thousands of years. Thranduil grinds his teeth and clenches his fists and eventually, _finally_ , manages to steer away from his pride.

He summons Tauriel to his study and she arrives with a bashful expression, the bow she gives him stiff and her lips pinched. She knows to expect a tirade.

“You told me I might need someone to speak to, in the absence of my son,” he begins, and barely supresses a smile when he realises she interprets this as a prologue to something bad. “I have considered what you said,” he continues, “And have come to appreciate the wisdom in your words.”

She straightens visibly, her eyebrows rising in surprise. “My Lord?”

He gives her a tight smile. “Send messengers to Grimbeorn in the west and Radagast to the south. Tell scouts to find my son and bring him home. Then join me for dinner. I have some matters I would like to discuss with you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sources:  
> http://lotrproject.com/timeline  
> http://lotr.wikia.com  
> http://www.arwen-undomiel.com/elvish/phrases.html

**Author's Note:**

> Sources:  
> http://lotrproject.com/timeline  
> http://lotr.wikia.com  
> http://www.arwen-undomiel.com/elvish/phrases.html


End file.
